


O death, where is thy sting?

by Mallorn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Tarkin suffers heart failure after firing the Death Star’s weapon against Scarif, but gets an unexpected chance to save his lover.





	O death, where is thy sting?

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, there's major character death in this story, but nobody actually dies :-)
> 
> This story was inspired by a Tumblr discussion and subseqent fics by a number of talented people - please check out the Star Wars: Demon!Empire AU collection for info and more stories.
> 
> This is my first ever M/M story, and even though it’s very mild, it’s still a big step for me. I hope you’ll enjoy.
> 
> And to those who’ve so far enjoyed my M/F fics, fear not! I’m not changing focus, more, like, branching out :)
> 
> The title is a Bible quote from 1st Cor 15:55, King James Version.

”You may fire when ready.”

Tarkin issued the order in his customary, clipped command voice, distinct consonants carrying far. Used to being listened to, he did not need to raise his voice to be heard, but it stilled pleased him to observe the effect of his words on his subordinates, how they strived to carry out his orders with efficiency. Not in a hurried, sloppy manner, but swiftly, without tarrying.

He forced himself to watch the finger pushing the button, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. During the moments that followed, he held his breath, as if waiting – hoping – for the laser to malfunction. How ironic wouldn’t that have been, if Krennic’s weapon had refused to turn against its creator, thereby confirming the very failure the man had been accused of?

The sharp flash of light and the massive cloud that rose from the planet surface beneath confirmed success. Cheering broke out in the command central, and an officer approached him, reporting with all due formality what he had already witnessed.

“The rebels have been annihilated, sir.”

Tarkin answered the salute, thanking his harsh training and long years of service for the ability to keep his hand, as well as his voice, steady.

“Very well. We must keep our vigilance; there is no telling where the terrorists will strike next.”

“Of course sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

As the officers and technicians resumed their normal duties, the atmosphere in the room coming back from extreme tension to the customary level of alertness, he allowed himself to relax his stance. Extreme fatigue washed over him and he staggered towards a console, gripping it with shaking fingers. What was this sudden weakness?

“Are you well, sir?”

He dismissed the worried voice with a practiced gesture.

“It is nothing. Resume your duties.”

It was nothing. This was not the time and place for personal concerns, and he would not let them rule him. He never had, and this situation wasn’t different from others he had encountered. The decision to fire had been correct; there was no other way to halt the approaching catastrophe. Losing his – former – lover was but an unfortunate side-effect; Krennic was even a doubtful asset to the cause at this stage. In the long run, this outcome was for the best, an elegant move, even. Through death, the director had evaded demotion, escaped a very likely court-martial or a worse fate at the Emperor’s hands, and with time his memory might even acquire an aura of tragic glory. Always one for drama, Krennic would have liked that.

Tarkin would continue to mask his feelings, as always. The sharp pain stabbing at his heart and spreading through his chest would dull eventually, and dissipate the sooner if he could just avoid thinking about what they once had. Those innocent, blue eyes looking up at him with far too much trust. Pouty lips, slightly swollen from rough kissing. Soft hands, ungloved only for him, touching his scarred body more gently than he’d allowed anyone to do in years. The begging, ah, what wouldn’t he give to see Krennic’s on his knees again?  

All gone. Irrevocably. He clenched his fist, determined to convince himself that it had been nothing more than a convenient arrangement. Physical attraction, that was all. Relieving a need. And yet, he could not deny how it hurt to remember watching Orson sleeping. The pain in his chest refused to give way, numbness spread through his arms and he staggered again, helplessly sinking to the floor.

***

He screamed with pain as his lungs filled with air, each breath a torture he was unable to stop himself from going through again and again, until he was finally fit to use his senses. His hearing was dimmed, all he could pick up was the sound of odd chanting all around him, and he was surrounded by sickly green smoke. A foul taste of sulphur was in his mouth, and as he lifted his hand to wipe his lips, he became aware of his long, claw-line nails. How long had he been out for them to grow to that extent? His hand appeared somewhat fleshier than he remembered it, and as he examined the rest of his body, he took note of the pronounced musculature that seemed to have been added to his sinewy form. He stood with ease, without any hint of the pain in his joints he had begun to feel with advancing age. He felt young, and strong.

His uniform was in shreds and this public display of nakedness should have displeased him, but he found it natural. The icy chill in his limbs, unpleasant, but also natural, had nothing to do with temperature. He had no need for clothes.

Through the dissipating fog he saw Vader holding that cursed object, the sith holocron he’d hoped never to see again. Forming a circle around them both were his officers, their familiar faces watching him with far more fear than necessary. There was something else in their expressions, too. Awe, and – arousal?

“We could not afford to lose you at this hour, Governor,” Vader’s voice boomed. “The Emperor would not approve.”

“Ah…” His tongue felt alien in his mouth and forming words was much too difficult.

“We will speak later. You answer to me now, demon.”

“W – wah...” Curse this inaptitude! How hard it was to pronounce the words that came over him. _What will you have me do, master?_

“Get him.”

Him. Soft body, blue eyes. White fabric. _Hands_. A flicker of warmth came over him, soothing for a moment the persistant, bitter cold in his limbs. Krennic. Yes. The impulse to do his new master’s will caused an unexpected response in his body. Something dark fluttered at the corners of his eyes and he felt his feet lift from the ground. His master’s chuckle made him veer slightly in the air, as if he had stumbled.

“You will find that your present form has some new abilities, but for this, you still need a shuttle. We take mine.”

With his master’s abilities, they were able to locate the unconscious Krennic quickly amongst the rubble of the demolished citadel tower. His visible wounds weren’t lethal and he was breathing, but barely. Crouching, Tarkin gathered him into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Orson looked so weak, so frail. Could he even be healed? Perhaps it would be better if – he looked to his master.

“No. Later, perhaps, if you serve me well and the need arises. For now, the Emperor wants him alive. Human.”

He nodded in understanding, pleased that his… his… love (what a foreign concept) was allowed to keep this form for now. This human frailty was so alluring, so rosy and warm against his body, even through the tattered uniform. Simply imagining what he would feel like without it made his loins ache. He bowed his head, aiming for a gentle kiss but found himself devouring those lips with a frenzied passion that had Krennic moaning with more than lust.

“Stop.” His master’s voice cut sharply through the red haze and he recoiled, watching in horror what he had done. There was blood on his love’s lips.

“You are not allowed to break him,” Vader continued, and he whimpered in reply.

Devastated, he lifted Krennic’s limp body and offered it to his master. What good was this strong body if he had no control, if he could not be trusted?

“No. You must learn. You will stay with him, and you will both remain in the Emperor’s service. Do it well, and you may even earn your freedom, with time. Prove that you are still Wilhuff.”

He nodded, bile rising in his throat as he regarded Krennic’s… Orson’s still face. He placed a gentle kiss on his forehead – this time withdrawing fast before his blood could start thrumming with ravenous desire – and was rewarded with a murmur from the man in his arms.

“You…” it said.

“Yes. I came for you.”

Weakly, Orson’s good arm lifted to his face, gloved hand stroking his cheek gently, then proceeding to his hair. He felt the man’s body stiffen as the hand encountered something unexpected. Yes, he had horns now, but they were really small, elegant even. Could even fit underneath an officer’s cap if necessary.

Blue eyes fluttered open, and he did his best to produce a friendly grin. Orson’s gaze took in his form and suddenly flashed with panic.

“Wilhuff…” he said, shutting his eyes closed. “I need… better take me to medbay now. I’m hallucinating.”

“Yes, my love.” He placed a soothing kiss on his forehead again, relieved to feel Orson relax somewhat.

This time, the impulse to make speed was unquenchable and he lifted from the ground, covering the short distance to the shuttle much faster than he could have on foot. Orson clung to him, the warmth from his hands maddening, but he was determined to not let it fuel his desire before his lover was ready. He must fight, in this form as so many times during his lifetime. Wilhuff Tarkin would never back down from a challenge.


End file.
